


it ain't no life to live like you're on the run

by mosaicofhearts



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Background Relationships, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, F/M, Fix-It, Hanbrough, M/M, Post-Canon, So Benverly, Stanley Uris Lives, as a treat!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24061603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosaicofhearts/pseuds/mosaicofhearts
Summary: He goes back to New York because, at the end of it all, he doesn’t know what else to do.Nothing in him yearns for the city, for his wife, for the place he has lived for so long now but never once truly called home. None of that matters, though. Surprisingly or not, Eddie is the last to leave – save for Mike, who he thinks only stays around so long to make sure that Eddies does actually leave. The fact that he doesn’t immediately bolt for the comfort of his home city when they finally kill the clown is probably more telling than anything else. He’s willing to wait around in Derry for two days longer, as though somehow the time will make his return better, rather than worse.Or: Eddie returns to New York after the losers defeat It, and tries to learn a little about himself.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 35
Kudos: 196





	it ain't no life to live like you're on the run

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is my longest fic ever (!!!), and also the only one i've ever written in one day, so i think this firmly establishes that i Live Here Now.
> 
> i know the post-it reddie thing is kind of overdone, but i really wanted to try and tell my version of it, from eddie's point of view, and this ran away from me a little (as these things tend to do). tbh i got to 7k words and started to ... hate it... but i persisted and here we are! my plan was to do a part two to this and make it a mini series, but idk. let me know if u wanna see that maybe lol.
> 
> there are probably mistakes, please let me know if you see them! i should also point out that, alas, i am not a comedian, but i try my best to do the Humor stuff, lol.
> 
> comments, kudos, recs are so, so appreciated!

He goes back to New York because, at the end of it all, he doesn’t know what else to do.

Nothing in him yearns for the city, for his wife, for the place he has lived for so long now but never once truly called home. None of that matters, though. Surprisingly or not, Eddie is the last to leave – save for Mike, who he thinks only stays around so long to make sure that Eddies does actually _leave_. The fact that he doesn’t immediately bolt for the comfort of his home city when they finally kill the clown is probably more telling than anything else. He’s willing to wait around in Derry for two days longer, as though somehow the time will make his return better, rather than worse.

Ben and Bev are the first to go; together, hands clasped unabashedly, and with promises to stay in touch that Eddie wants to believe in even if he doesn’t. Then Bill, Richie, each with their own goodbyes that are more open-ended than final. Mike doesn’t push Eddie on the issue of leaving, though Eddie thinks he too must be desperate to leave by now. More so than the others, considering he hasn’t had the time away that the rest of them have. He doesn’t push but he does level him with this knowing gaze on one occasion too many. It leaves Eddie feeling seen in a way he hasn’t for so long, in a way that makes him uncomfortable.

So, he checks himself out of the Derry Inn finally – knowing that this is a place he will never return to – and he makes Mike swear he’ll head out of town by the next day, at the latest. Derry isn’t the place for someone like Mike Hanlon. It never has been. Now that they have their memories back, Eddie can remember how adamant they had all been that Mike wouldn’t get left behind when the last of them had moved on to something better. It stirs a guilt in him that he knows is unfair to himself, considering the outside forces at play here, but he feels it all the same. At least now there’s nothing keeping Mike here – all blood pacts fulfilled and finished (he hopes).

The flight back is quick and uneventful. He orders a scotch on board to tend to the tightness he feels in every part of his body. He manages to snap at someone only once for the entirety of the journey from Derry to New York, and he takes that as a win. Usually when he is this on edge, there are far more casualties than this. He hopes it’s not his mind’s way of saving all of that up for when he sees Myra, knowing it’s better to take than to give when it comes to her.

In the back of the taxi, he lets himself really look at the city. Once, it instigated something exciting within him. Now, though, he thinks maybe that was just the thrill of getting away from Derry and away from his mom. The feeling isn’t really there anymore.

“Eddie-bear!” Myra is incessant and wheedling as soon as he gets through the door. He closes his eyes against the onslaught, as though that will help. “I’ve been worried sick – oh my!” She gasps, hand coming up to hover over the barely healed wound on his cheek. He flinches away from it, feeling the stab of guilt that comes with the confusion in her eyes. “What happened to you? Did someone do this to you!? I knew I should have called the police, oh –”

“No.” Eddie says quickly. Firmly, too, if her reaction is anything to go by. “No, it’s – I’m fine. I told you. I had to go to Derry for some old friends. There was an accident, but it’s nothing serious. I’m fine.”

“Let me have a look –“ She’s reaching forward again. It makes him feel nauseous. It shouldn’t make him feel nauseous.

“I went to the hospital,” he promises. “It’s been looked at. Everything is – fine.”

“You can’t do that again, Eddie-bear. You can’t do that to me. I was so worried about you.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” _I had to_.

She sniffs, pulling her cardigan tightly around her. “Who are these friends of yours, anyway? You’ve not mentioned them before…”

“Just – from my childhood.” Eddie sighs.

Now that he remembers, he can’t believe he had ever forgotten. About that summer. About the friends he spent the entirety of his childhood with. He took one look at all of them – at _Richie_ – in the restaurant where they had all congregated that first night, and he had been struck dumb with how much he felt for them. These people he hadn’t seen for twenty seven-years somehow meant more to him than anyone he had in his life now.

He doesn’t want to think about how different the trajectory of his life could have been if they had not been robbed of their memories of one another. He doesn’t _want_ to, but he does anyway.

“Perhaps it’d be best not to keep in touch.” Myra frowns. “Look at you, Eddie… they don’t seem like good influences.”

“No. No, they aren’t,” is all he says. “I’m tired. I’m going to get some rest.”

He takes the stairs two at a time, though his body aches with it. He heads to the spare bedroom – though it is more his own these days anyway – and has a dream-filled sleep for the first time in a long while.

*

When he wakes up and still remembers, he lets relief flood him for the first time since leaving Derry.

The fear that he would forget all over again had been there, gnawing at the back of his mind. Even when Ben and Bev had set up the group chat, the messages flooding in from each of those who had left before him, he hadn’t been able to let him believe it fully.

He showers, has breakfast and jilted conversation with Myra, and spends the day in his office. She doesn’t guilt him about it, for which he is grateful. He plans to make a list of things he needs to change in his life, though even the thought is enough to get his palms sweating and his heart racing. Before Derry, Eddie had been content with his life. Perhaps not happy, but content. After Derry, he sees that there is so much that he needs to change about it. For his own good. Change has never been something he has welcomed; routine and stability always factoring high on his list of priorities. But he thinks of Bev, serving divorce papers on her husband without even returning home, and he thinks of Richie, coming out to them with an awkward joke that belied his nerves, and he thinks that he should take something from the courage of his friends.

They’ve killed the clown. They’ve faced the worst thing that any of them could ever possibly face, and they’ve come out of it alive.

If he were a believer in fate, or even in God, then he might think that this was them – _him_ – being given a second chance at life. As it is, he doesn’t put much stock in either of those things (but that doesn’t stop him from thinking he could be right).

First up, he calls the office and asks – no, he _tells_ them he’s taking the next two weeks as vacation days. He expects some push back because he has a habit of anticipating the worst, but they agree straight away, the hint of surprise in his bosses tone the only thing amiss. Eddie hasn’t taken a vacation day in the thirteen years he’s worked for this company. He’s pretty sure there are many an absurd theory flying around the office as a result.

He panics, briefly, that his notable absence from the office will cause people to _talk_ about him. They might think he’s had a breakdown, or he’s fallen ill, or he’s planning on quitting – they’ll probably think anything other than the obvious, which is that he just wants the time off, and he can’t blame them for it considering he _doesn’t take time off_.

He realises pretty quickly that it’s an irrational thing to worry about, and for once he accepts it. He’s always been full of irrational fears and concerns; used to letting them affect him in ways they shouldn’t. It’s freeing to think ‘ _let them talk_ ’, and for that to be enough.

Deciding not to tell Myra that he’s taking the time off induces more panic, and this time it’s easier to toss aside. But he sticks to it. Starts to wonder how he will fill up his time instead, knowing that he’ll have to spend it out of their shared home during the day so as not to raise her suspicions. If she knows he’s not in work, she’ll be concerned. He’s always thought that it’s nice to have someone around to be concerned about him, but he knows that Myra’s concern is suffocating. It’s the sort of concern that he also recognises that he’s used to; from his mother before, and now from his wife. He’s not quite ready to even attempt to unpack all of that. The memories of his childhood have returned, but there are still those repressed – those revolving around his relationship with his mother, boxed and tied up pretty with a bow in his mind.

The list takes him the entirety of the day to finish, during which he has to take some breaks when he starts to become unnerved about what he’s planning. It ranges from the inconspicuous – running; eating out at new restaurants; talking to at least one loser weekly – to the frankly dangerous. Apartment hunting. Calling Richie. Therapy. He crosses the last one off twice before replacing it.

*

**Mike Hanlon:** [image of a sunset]

 **Mike Hanlon:** Thinking of you all :) <3

 **Beverly Marsh:** pretty!

 **Ben Hanscom:** Back at ya, Mikey :)

 **Bill Denbrough:** Where are you?

 **Mike Hanlon:** Florida, baby!!

 **Richie Tozier:** did u just call bill ‘baby’

 **Mike Hanlon:** No??? That was not what I meant.

 **Richie Tozier:** hm okay. nice sunset. very… orange.

 **Eddie Kaspbrak** : have a good time, Mike.

 **Stanley Uris:** Looks good, Mike.

 **Richie Tozier:** stanley, it’s been two days since he sent that…

*

The group chat becomes a staple in all their lives. Usually, there’s just a few messages a day, everyone checking in on each other but without a constant stream of chatter. Eddie imagines that all of them are busy settling back into life after Derry. He knows that Bev has been renting near Ben, but they are making plans for her to move in within the next month or so. He knows that Richie has fired his writer and is working on some new material. Mike is constantly on the road, seemingly touring all of the places he’s always dreamed of visiting. Bill is probably, surprisingly, the most active in the chat; messages of optimism that Eddie isn’t sure he fully believes. He’s not one to dig deep, though.

Then there’s Stan, who spent weeks apologising for everything – for attempting to take himself out of the game, for failing to take himself out of the game, for not travelling to Derry and facing It with the rest of them. There’s never been any blame there, and maybe finally he’s believing that. Truthfully, Eddie is still surprised that _he_ went in the first place. He could never judge Stan for not wanting to relive their childhood trauma.

They all make plans to visit Stan and his wife – Patty – in Atlanta, after he admits he’s told her everything, as if he had a choice to do anything else. When he talks about her, he’s softer around the edges than Eddie ever remembers him being. It’s clear to him that, out of all of them, Stan’s the one who made the most of his life; the most content of them all. He’s glad of it, even if a part of him is more envious than he would like.

Eddie keeps his own updates short and detail free. He knows that he can trust them with everything that he’s feeling. He also knows that he probably _should_ tell them about it all. But he wants to keep this to himself for a while. At least until he knows what he wants from his life. All he has right now is a collection of ideas jotted down in a notepad he keeps with him at all times, hidden from everyone else in his life. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

*

After Eddie starts running (which is probably one of the best decisions he’s ever made for himself, honestly), the apartment comes next. It’s an accident, more than anything. As one of the decidedly more major things on his list it’s something he was planning on putting off for longer, but when he happens across a place with a ‘to let’ sign not far from Central Park he realises he can’t pass it up.

It’s a small, minimalist place that the realtor is quick to advise him he can ‘make his own’. He finds himself wanting to do exactly that. It’s weird. Despite having a home – a really nice, expensive home – not far from here, he takes one look at the bare apartment and feels more like he belongs there. It has a lot of open space and vast windows, overlooking one of the few green areas in the whole city, and he doesn’t deliberate before deciding to take it. It’s going to put a dent in his savings, but he’s less bothered about that than he thought he would be. It’s not like he’s really been saving for anything in particular anyway – he’s got a sizeable amount stashed away, more for retirement purposes than anything else.

He doesn’t actually move into the apartment. That would require telling Myra, which would require _leaving_ Myra, and he hasn’t even been able to put that on the list yet.

The thing is.

 _The thing is_.

Eddie’s not an _idiot_. He’s always known about the similarities there between his wife and his mom. He’s also always known that those similarities are part of why he married Myra at all, which is embarrassing and sad and terrible. His mother’s methods were far from perfect, but she always loved him; always wanted to keep him safe. He’s spent so much of his life truly believing that that was what he needed – someone to take care of him the way that she always had. Even without the childhood memories of Derry, he’s known enough to recognise the controlling nature of his mother and the awful reality of some of her choices regarding him.

But now he has the memories back, he can see the full scale of it. He’d forgotten about the placebos. When he thinks about the pills he’s been taking and the inhalers he’s still relied on for the better part of his life, it brings a bitter taste to his mouth, knowing that he had found out the truth of the situation back when he was a kid, but that had been taken away from him with the rest of it.

The truth is not enough to convince him to throw away his inhaler, but he does flush the majority of the pills away – pills that have been doing nothing for him but keeping him crippled with all these beliefs about his health and who he is.

He keeps the apartment on a lease, and he moves furniture and belongings in over time, until the final piece of the puzzle will be _him_.

*

“You shouldn’t be running so much. It’s bad for your chest.”

Eddie looks up from the dinner table. Tonight, he’s made a satay stir fry, much to Myra’s dismay. Since returning from Derry over a month ago, he’s been testing the limits of his so-called allergies. It’s taking a while to built up to this one, because peanut allergies are notoriously dangerous and life-threatening and all he could think about was dying.

Turns out, he isn’t allergic to peanuts.

He thinks about telling Myra that running will be _fine_ for his chest, because he has anxiety, not asthma, but instead he says, “I’m going to Atlanta next weekend.”

“What?” She drops her fork. There’s worry in her eyes, but he’s come to recognise that as worry for herself, and not worry for him. “What’s in Atlanta?”

“My friends.” It feels good to say it. The word has always rolled so awkwardly off his tongue before this, but since Derry… well. A lot is easier since Derry. “From back in Derry. Stan lives there with his wife.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. It _is_ a big deal, and his heart is thundering in his chest, but he has to remind himself that Myra cannot do anything to stop him from leaving. He is forty years old and not fourteen, and either way, he has some control over his own actions.

“I don’t think you should go.”

“I’m going. It’s just – I’m just going to see my friends. It’ll be fine.”

And it _will_ be, he knows. He can’t think of the last time the losers got together for some normal, quality time, not even back when they were kids. There’s nothing threatening them now. Or rather, there’s no killer clown threatening them now.

“It’s a bad idea – “

“Myra.” Eddie works his jaw around it, nervous. “I don’t want to argue. I’m going. I’ve told you because I should, not because I want to discuss it.”

The shock that registers in her face is satisfying, but he automatically feels guilty for thinking that. He swallows down that feeling, finishing up his dinner with a barely suppressed shake in his hands, and excuses himself to the spare bedroom – _his bedroom_ – for the night.

*

They’ve co-ordinated their flights so that they all touch down into Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport at roughly the same time. It’s probably a little overly co-dependent, even for them, but Eddie can’t begin to care too much about it when he’s greeted with six familiar faces and one not so well-known face at the airport.

Something uncomfortable in his gut loosens when he sees them all, waiting for him. He lets Bev press a kiss to his cheek; accepts hugs from Mike and Ben, nodding over their shoulders at Bill and at Richie. It’s Stan who surprises him with the tightest of embraces, an ode to the fact that this is the first time that they are really seeing each other since they were kids, and Eddie tries not to think about the fact that they almost didn’t have this.

“This is Patty.” he introduces the pretty, smiling woman to them all with a smile of his own.

Eddie’s seen her on the group video calls they’ve done intermittently, but he’s bowled over by the warmth she gives off in person.

“I’ve heard a lot about you all,” she admits, smile turning knowing. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

When the brief introductions are out of the way, Richie’s voice carries above the rest.

“Not that this isn’t heart-warming – and I mean, truly, it is, I could shed a tear or two – but maybe we can continue with all of this elsewhere? Maybe in the privacy of the hotel?”

Eddie meets his gaze, making sure Richie can see the roll of his eyes even though he knows that he’s right, and they should definitely do their bit to ease the airport congestion. He feels like he’s thirteen again, though. Being contrary for the hell of it; to see Richie’s answering grin just for himself.

They separate into two groups, with Stan and Patty taking Mike and Bill with them in their car; the rest of them opting to grab an Uber and meet them there. It’s a short journey to the hotel – chosen to ease the pressure on Stan and Patty, despite their offers to put them all up in their home for the weekend – and Eddie spends the car ride sat in the back with Ben and Bev; alternating between listening to them and eyeing Richie in the passenger seat. He finds himself trying to commit them all to memory, even now, as though he thinks he might forget them again. It’s a fear that has stayed with since returning to New York, despite the fact he wakes up every day with his memories intact and stronger than ever.

Eddie isn’t the only one, though. By the time they reunite at the hotel, he’s picking up on the little things. The permanent smile Mike wears when he looks around at them all, like he can’t quite believe it. How Ben focuses on each and every word said, no matter how dumb and crude from Richie, as though he doesn’t want to miss a second of it.

(Eddie thinks they could _definitely_ miss most of the ‘your mom’ jokes that Richie’s still insistent on making, even though they make very little sense now, but he also sort of gets it).

After a check in that takes too much time and leaves him impatiently tapping his foot – until Richie notices and laughs at him -- they agree to reconvene in the hotel bar, because it’s 4pm, and according the majority of them, that’s an acceptable time at which to drink alcohol. Eddie can’t remember the last time he drank at this time of the day, if ever. Their home in New York is an alcohol-free residence.

He’s late to join them, because he has to methodically unpack everything, and he changes his shirt three times before deciding on the one he wears (plain, light blue, with his ‘informal’ pants). By the time he gets to the bar, the rest of them have already got a drink in front of them. There’s laughter – the most raucous from Bev – and Richie’s talking.

“—I mean, this guy was _huge_ , and Bill – Big Bill just folds his arms across his chest,” he mimics the movement. “And says ‘C-C-Can it, fuckface’.”

The laughter intensifies, with Richie himself dissolving into giggles. It makes Eddie smile, even as he hovers on the edge of the circle for a moment, frowning as he tries to place this memory.

“Stammer and all. I swear I’ve never ran so fast in my life, and not since then, either.” Richie grins, slapping a hand on Bill’s shoulder next to him. Bill is red-faced, but he’s smiling, even if it is shaded in embarrassment.

“Always leading us into trouble back then, wasn’t he?” Mike laughs, fond with it in a way that seems to intensify Bill’s blush.

“Yeah, yeah. Got us out of it in the end, though.”

It’s then that they notice Eddie, Ben’s face opening up with it as he beckons him forward, into the spare seat left for him between he and Richie.

Bev grins across at him from Ben’s other side. “Eddie! Good of you to join us.”

“What took you so long?” Mike leans forward, pushing a tumbler of whiskey across the table towards him.

“Preening himself in front of the mirror, no doubt,” Richie interjects with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Semi-successfully. Tell me, how much gel is in your hair right now?”

Eddie can practically feel the way his engine revs. “Less grease than is in yours, dickwad. When did you last wash that thing?”

It’s instantaneous – the way Richie’s eyes light up and he whoops. There’s a mix of laughter and incredulity from the rest of the group, too, but Eddie finds it only too easy to blank it all out, to focus entirely on the rush of warmth he gets from Richie’s reaction. It’s _terrifying_.

“Eds gets off a good one!” he’s shoving the glass in Eddie’s hand as though it’s a prize for his retort, and he rolls his eyes.

“Don’t call me that.”

It’s little more than a half-hearted grumble, a semi-smile thankfully hidden behind the tumbler as he brings it to his lips. The whiskey isn’t quite to his admittedly expensive tastes, but he knows better than to tell _this_ lot that (God, the ribbing from Richie alone would be insufferable), so he nods his head at Mike in some sort of gratitude instead.

It’s exactly like it was in Derry that first night, and after, when they’d destroyed It. Deep down, Eddie had always known it would be, but it’s nice to be validated in his thoughts. The way they slip back into this easy camaraderie between them all would be weird, if he didn’t know what it was they had all gone through together. He wonders if Patty finds it strange – wouldn’t blame her if she did – but when he catches her eye, she’s all soft smiles and quiet amusement. She’s a solid force beside Stan, and Eddie doesn’t miss the way he leans into her occasionally.

By the time they even decide to venture out onto the streets of Atlanta, hours have passed and they’re all well on their way to being drunk. Eddie hopes they are, anyway, because _he_ definitely is. He thinks Bill and Richie are the worst, the two of them having conjured up some ridiculous game between the two despite them all knowing that Bill is a total lightweight who can’t hold his drink. He’s being half held up by Mike as they leave the hotel, strong arm reaching across Bill’s much smaller shoulders.

It’s nice. Eddie doesn’t think he’s felt this good in – well years, honestly.

They end up at a small hole in the wall karaoke bar a few streets away, all of them talking and laughing and falling over one another as they squeeze into one of the booths. It’s not a place Eddie would go to back home, and not just because he doesn’t have these kinds of friends back home. It’s a little too dirty and a little too busy, but so many miles away from New York, he feels freer already.

“Right, I’m signing us all up.” Richie claps his hands together, grinning as he stands beside the booth. “Any requests?”

“I request you don’t put me down.” Eddie says, narrowing his eyes at Richie. It makes his already fairly blurred vision even worse, so he stops pretty quickly.

“Aw, come on. It’ll be fun.” That’s Ben, smiling at Eddie from across the booth.

It probably _would_ be fun, Eddie reasons, but he’s not there. He shakes his head resolutely, even as Richie goes off to jot at least some of their names down, and he focuses on heading to the bar to order another drink instead.

Not long later, he’s watching – half caught between horror and delight – Stan and Patty give their rendition of ‘I Got You Babe’ on the tiny stage, to a full bar and a deafening amount of applause. Bev tries her hand at ‘I Will Survive’, and it’s far more poignant to them than it’s supposed to be, tugging at his heart strings in a way that nobody outside of their ragtag band of brothers would understand.

And then Richie’s up there. Eddie’s heart is in his mouth, though he can’t quite understand why. There’s a multitude of song choices that go through his head, but he absolutely does not expect to hear the opening chords to ‘Hey Big Spender’ playing out into the bar. Beside him, he hears Bill snort, even as Bev and Mike start hooting and cheering loudly.

“Jesus.” Eddie says, hushed, as Richie starts singing. Terribly. He can’t sing for shit, but that doesn’t matter.

Eddie’s seen enough of his specials now to _get_ the Trashmouth thing. Even with his previously awful jokes and first grade level humour, he knows why Richie was always able to get the following he has now. It’s got a lot to do with his charisma, the way he moves and holds himself, the cheeky grin that follows anything self-deprecating he ever says – he seems to come alive under a spotlight, when the attention is on him, and right now is no different. It’s ridiculous. He’s over-exaggerating everything he does, including the awful dance moves, but Eddie can’t take his eyes off of him, and the whole bar seems to feel exactly the same way.

(He doesn’t know how he feels about that).

“He’s something, right?” Mike’s voice is in Eddie’s ear, jolting him out of his reverie. He flushes, grateful for the dimly lit bar. “Always has been.”

“Sure. He’s _something_ alright.” Eddie snorts. It might not be enough to cover the admiration written all over his face just a few seconds ago, but at least it’s Mike, and nobody else.

“How’s New York?” Mike asks, then, and he’s wearing that same expression he did back in Derry, all those months ago.

It makes Eddie shift in his seat, focused suddenly on the near empty glass in front of him. He pushes the ice around a bit, shrugging. “Fine. I mean, it’s New York, Mike. Didn’t change much during the few days I was in Derry.” He aims for _duh_ with his tone and gets _bitter_ instead. So, that’s great.

Mike nods, anyway, like he gets it. “Sometimes it’s nice to get away.”

“Yeah, but not to _Derry_ thought.”

“No, not to Derry.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Haven’t thought about it at all since I hit the road.”

“Where are you gonna head to next?” Eddie looks at him looking at Bill and knows the answer before he even responds.

The knowledge is less of a surprise than he thinks it should be, really.

“Not sure,” is what Mike says. “I’ll figure it out.”

Eddie thinks he might, too.

*

The trip to Atlanta seems to instigate something deeper within them all. By the time Eddie’s returned home to New York, he gets off the plane to dozens of notifications in the group chat, flicking through them fondly as he waits to collect his luggage. There’s a photo of Ben and Bev outside his home – _their_ home, now – and a lot of messages stemming from that. He shoots off a quick congratulations text himself before he heads out.

The days and weeks following are filled with constant chatter, phone calls, video calls; Eddie’s vow to talk to at least one of them every week is met tenfold with this renewed energy to them. He spends his time smiling at his phone and hiding his messages from Myra when she asks. He doesn’t mean to keep this from her – except he does, really. This will only ever be for him, a piece of life that nobody else can touch. He still doesn’t message as much as the others, though – still remains tight-lipped about everything that’s going on with him.

Mostly, he tries not to think about how much he’s growing to resent his life here in New York. He wants to keep the losers separate from this, for as long as he can. He’s rebuilding, and he’s always been stubborn enough to want to do this bit alone.

About three weeks after that trip to Atlanta, Bill posts in the group chat that he’s getting a divorce. Until now, Eddie’s viewed Bill as the closest to him on the privacy front; his messages frequent but without giving away too much.

He stares at the words for a long time. He turns his phone off, before immediately thinking better of it and starting it back up. Something about it scares him, even though it isn’t his life, even though it’s for the best, even though Bill isn’t the first of them to go through this. Even though he might not be the last either.

It takes him an hour of pacing and thinking and _not_ panicking before he can read the messages that his phone has been buzzing with intermittently.

He scrolls through the chat, eyes catching on the nicknames set by Richie which make inappropriate laughter bubble in his chest until he’s laughing and laughing and _crying_ with it, because the juxtaposition of the names paired with the serious nature of the conversation deserve nothing if not an exaggerated, half fearful reaction.

**Big Bitch Bill:** Hey, guys. Thought it was about time I let you know that I’m getting a divorce. Things between Audra and I haven’t been right for some time – my fault, probably, but regardless this is for the best. It would be good if you guys wanted to come and visit when I get my own place.

 **Bevvie Ringwald:** i’m here to talk if you ever want to, bill. i can put you in touch with a good divorce lawyer if you need it? x

 **Not so Haystack:** sorry to hear that, Bill. If you need anything, you know where we are :(

 **Big Bitch Bill:** all sorted on the lawyer front, thanks Bev. I might give you a call later, though?

 **Bevvie Ringwald** : of course, just let me know and i’ll clear my schedule

 **Stan the Man:** Patty and I are here if you need anything

 **Big Dick Tozier:** probably for the best, i heard audra fucked ur mom anyway so it seems like the right choice for u

 **Bevvie Ringwald:** richie!!

 **Big Dick Tozier:** sorry

 **Big Dick Tozier** : love u really, man

 **Big Bitch Bill:** thanks, Rich

 **Micycle** : *love heart emoji*

 **Big Dick Tozier:** u know that’s not how u send a heart emoji right, mike?

 **Big Dick Tozier:** like, that’s not even close to being right

 **Stan the Man:** Richie, shut up.

 **Big Dick Tozier:** we’re FORTY, not INCOMPETENT. can someone teach mike how to use a phone pls

Eddie rolls his eyes at the messages. He types and retypes, frown creasing his brow as he tries to think of something to say, before sending a reply.

**Eddie Spaghetti** : Hope you’re doing okay, Bill.

 **Eddie Spaghetti:** How do I change my name on here?

 **Big Dick Tozier:** u can’t :p

He absolutely does not smile as he pushes his phone back into his pocket and, if he does, nobody is around to see it anyway.

*

Ben and Bev end up buying a beach house somewhere warm and sunny, because of course they do. Eddie’s pretty sure that they intend to use it as a romantic, private getaway place for the two of them, but as soon as they mention it in the group chat it becomes the focal point for their next meet up. It’s barely been a month or so since Atlanta, but it’s not like they haven’t been progressively planning the next time since the moment they all got home.

Bill’s divorce announcement has been ringing in Eddie’s head from the moment he mentioned it. He doesn’t think it’s remotely healthy to be so apparently obsessed with his friends love life, or lack thereof, but he also recognises that that is definitely not what’s going on here. He’s been thinking about it for a while, and though it hasn’t been on the list, he knows that it’s in the cards for he and Myra.

They haven’t shared a bed for a few years now, so it’s not like it can be blamed completely on his return to Derry and the reunion with the losers club. But mostly – yeah, it’s fair to say that things have shifted somewhat dramatically since then. He spends more time messaging his once lost friends than he does talking to his wife, and there’s something in him that resents each moment he stays stuck in this place. It’s not her fault. She was what he thought he wanted, and what he thought he needed, but that was before – everything. Before he helped to kill an alien clown in the sewers for a second time, with the best friends he’s always been missing despite not even knowing that they existed.

Forty isn’t the best age to start having these realisations, but he thinks it’s probably better than never.

The truth is, his marriage has always been a sham, and he looks at Myra and thinks that surely she must feel the same, deep down. This has never been the right thing for either of them.

He knows it won’t be that simple, though.

“What time will you be home tomorrow?”

He’s washing the dishes, unhappy with the level of cleanliness that the dishwasher provides, though it’s probably _fine_. Eddie blinks a few times before he realises that Myra is talking to him. He’s been doing that a lot, lately. Lost in his own thoughts and taking longer than is fair to come out of them. Her brow is creased as it so often is when she looks at him now.

“I… I don’t think I will be.”

He realises that it’s the truth as soon as he says it.

He can’t ignore how good it feels, either.

Even with the rising wave that’s threatening to overwhelm him, he can’t ignore how easily the words come out, and how right they sound when they are out there.

“What?” Myra’s lips are a grim line slashed across her face. She looks as though she’s been expecting this, as much as she doesn’t want it. “Eddie, what do you mean?”

His own lips turn downward sadly, and he shakes his head. “You know, Myra. This – none of this is right. It’s been – it’s time.”

He doesn’t want to hurt her, is the thing. He knows that this _will_ hurt her, and he knows that he can’t let that stop him, but he’s never wanted to be a source of pain for her. She’s never done anything wrong. Not really. She’s been the person he was expecting her to be when they entered into this relationship – if one could even call it that – and he can’t blame her for being her when he _knew_.

He’s just tired of it. He realises, distantly, that he no longer feels this need to be – protected. If that was even what it was. He isn’t so sure anymore. The stability of it was always so important, but a lot has happened to make it impossible for him to ignore the fact that life _is fucked up_. That’s just how it is.

He places the last dish in the drying rack carefully, before wiping his hands down with a towel. “I’ve got an apartment.”

The confession isn’t one he means to let slip. Myra takes in a breath that sounds more like a gasp, raising a hand to her mouth in an attempt to cover it.

“Why are you doing this?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“But you are.” She makes a move as though to step towards him, halting when he takes a step back on auto pilot. “You don’t mean this, Eddie-bear. Haven’t I always looked after you?”

He shuts his eyes so tightly it almost hurts, focuses on the breathing exercises he’s looked up, still too _scared_ to go and see a therapist like he knows he should. His fingers itch at his side, as though looking for the inhaler that he knows he still has – in the top drawer of his bedside table, where it’s been since he came back from Atlanta – but he refuses to run for it. Instead, he makes his decision in the heat of the moment, and prays that he won’t regret it.

“I’m going to go now.”

He expects it, when she follows him around the house as he packs haphazardly, pulling his suitcase from under his bed and throwing in the things he needs. He can buy the rest when he’s settled. Distantly, he knows that she’s crying and begging, and he recognises that familiar tone as the one she uses when she’s trying to guilt trip him; as though she can manipulate him into staying. In the past, Eddie knows that she could and she did, and he feels white hot shame for ever being that person – the boy his mother created.

He doesn’t want to be that anymore.

“I’m sorry.” He tells her on the steps outside their home – hers now – because he means it, and he walks the twenty blocks to his apartment as though it’s nothing.

*

He wakes up for the first time in an apartment that is his, and he goes for his morning run to relieve some of the _stress stress stress_ that seems to reverberate around his head the moment he gets up again. It’s frustrating, because he knows he should be feeling good about this, but instead he’s second-guessing himself. For a brief moment when he’s running around Central Park, Eddie thinks he should go back to Myra.

He doesn’t.

He won’t.

His apartment is empty when he returns but somehow so much more welcoming than his home with Myra ever was. He showers off the sweat and grime from the run, unable to stick it for longer than necessary, and then he stares at his phone for approximately thirty seconds before he’s dialling Richie.

He regrets it almost as soon as he does it, already pulling back to hang up but –

Richie answers _suspiciously quickly_ , which is – weird.

“Eds! Hey! I was just gonna call you, actually.”

Eddie drops the phone, immediately letting loose a sound of distress when it bounces off the floor, and he gets down on his knees to scramble for it – he can hear Richie’s voice coming out of the end, tinny with the phone so far away, his name mixed in with the odd word.

“Uh… hello?”

“Hi, sorry,” he says breathlessly when he manages to get the phone stuck to his ear. “I, uh. Not sure what happened there.” And _why_ is he lying? He smacks a hand against his head frustratedly, resisting the urge to groan when he hears Richie’s deep laugh down the phone.

“Uh-huh, sure, buddy. Are you alright? You sound a little – uh, like you’re going to freak out on me, actually.”

“I’m not going to freak out. Why would I freak out?”

“I don’t know, Eds, you tell me.”

“I can’t. Because it’s not happening.” Eddie half growls. Now he’s annoyed at himself _and_ Richie and, honestly, he doesn’t have the energy to feel all this right now.

“Right.” Richie snorts. “You’re out of breath because you’re just happy to hear my seductive voice, then?”

He’s putting on a Voice that’s a mix between yoda and Gollum and Eddie could _actually_ kill him.

“Shut the fuck up, Richie. What did you want?”

There’s rustling which sounds like Richie’s sitting down, followed by, “Nothing important. What did you want? You’re the one that called me, shortstack.”

This was a terrible idea, Eddie realises. Of course this was a terrible idea, because he was absolutely not thinking when he did it.

He sighs; rubs a sweaty palm against his thigh and presses his back against the sofa, having not gotten up from his position on the floor since dropping the phone. “Nothing. I just – can I not just want to talk to my friend?”

“Uh, yeah. Of course.” Richie says slowly, as though that’s obvious, but also as though it’s surprising to him that Eddie wants to talk to _him_. Which is stupid. Eddie knows he’s not the only one who got his memories back and remembers how close they were as kids, after all. “Yeah. Sorry, Eds. Of course you can.”

There’s a beat. Eddie grapples for something to say but comes up short, filled with relief when Richie breaks the silence.

“How’s the, uh – the … the job?”

“You still don’t know what I do, do you?” He sighs, but he’s smiling with it, save in his apartment in New York where Richie can’t see him.

“Nope. Not at all.” Richie replies cheerfully.

“I’m a risk analyst, trashmouth, it’s not that fucking hard to keep up.”

“Oh, right. Sorry. It’s just so boring my mind kind of switches off whenever you mention it, you know?”

“Fuck you.”

He loves to hear Richie’s laugh. It’s not as good, over the phone, as it is when he can really physically hear it, see the way Richie’s broad shoulders move with it. But it’s good still. He lets it wash over him, flushing warm from head to toe.

“How’s the writing coming along?” He hears himself asking.

“Good. It’s good.” More rustling. “I was in the middle of some of that, actually. I have a meeting with my agent next week… there’s a Netflix special on the cards, apparently, so. Gotta blow them out of the park which should be easy obviously.”

Even from here, Eddie can feel the nerves. He’s reminded of the way Richie jokes to cover it up, as though he can fool any of them. “You will. You’ll do it.” The sudden tender edge of his voice catches even him off guard. “I mean, anything’s better than that shit you were calling comedy before, so the bar isn’t too high to reach.”

It’s weak but Richie still laughs, as though _Eddie’s_ the funny one. “You know I’m famous, right? That that ‘shit’ made me famous?”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Your wife would know all about that, wouldn’t she?”

It feels like a bucket of ice cold water has been poured over him, and he freezes, grappling for something to say. It’s long enough that Richie says his name, as though maybe he thinks that the line has gone dead on them.

“Fuck you, Richie.” He says. In the end, it’s a little too sharp to be _normal_ but Richie doesn’t seem to pick up on that. Or he does, but he’s doing Eddie a solid by actively avoiding pressing the issue.

(He knows it’s the latter, and he feels so inherently affectionate about it that he has to stop breathing for a second).

“No thank you, I don’t want Mrs Kapsbrak on my back.” Richie replies airily, breezing over it in one breath and moving onto something else so quickly it would give Eddie whiplash if he weren’t hoping for it. “You’re going to the beach house, right?”

“Yes. Obviously. We all RSPV’d in the group chat.”

“RSPV’d – you’re such a nerd. Nobody RSPV’s anymore.”

“Yes, they do. Normal, polite, well-mannered people do.”

“Are you calling me rude?” Richie gasps. “Why, Edward, I’m thoroughly offended by that, I hope you know.”

Eddie bites back a grin. “Good.” The dread at the mention of Myra hasn’t left, but it’s dissipating, slowly.

He knows he should just say it – it should be easier to tell Richie, now, and to tell the rest of them later. But it isn’t. Besides – it’s been one day since he left his wife and moved into an apartment by himself. Sure, he’s been leasing the apartment for three or four months now, and he can’t pretend the thought of leaving and divorce hasn’t been in the back of his mind ever since he got his memories back, pretty much, but it’s been _one day_. He thinks he gets more time to have an existential crisis before he has to let the world know.

He also doesn’t want to think about the questions, because there will be questions. They might not ask them straight away, but eventually he’s going to have to explain why he’s divorcing his wife, and as good of a reason as ‘ _Oh, I realised I married a carbon copy of my mom and thought it was best to cut my losses_ ’ is, it’s not the sole reason. Also, everything is embarrassing and he is entirely not ready for any of it.

That’s probably where the therapy comes in, admittedly. He makes a mental note to actually go through the list of potential therapists he compiled a month ago never to look at again.

He realises he’s zoned out, staring at one space on the wall in front of him, just as Richie goes, “Are you even listening to me? Now who’s the rude one, Eddie Spaghetti?”

“Shut up. I’m listening.” He says, even though he was absolutely not listening. “I am listening _now_ , anyway.” He amends, rolling his eyes at the exaggerated, fake huff of air that comes through the line. “Maybe you should be more interesting.”

“Oh, ouch.” Richie hums around a laugh. There’s a pause before he continues, and Eddie frowns a little at the awkwardness in his voice. “I was just saying that it’ll be, uh. Nice to see you. All of you.”

“Oh.” He bites his cheek. “We literally saw each other a month ago. You’re missing everyone already?”

It’s meant to be a joke, but he hears Richie sigh, almost feels like he can hear him thinking, even though that’s impossible.

“Yeah. I mean – aren’t you?”

It’s – it’s very real, is what it is, and it makes Eddie’s breath catch in his throat for a moment.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am.” It’s a confession he wouldn’t normally want to make. But what’s normal and what’s not has kind of been jumbled for him since Derry, so he figures it’s allowed.

Richie’s next sigh sounds like it’s relieved, and Eddie thinks it’s worth it, then. He’s always been scared about being too open like this. He knows he’s not the only one; knows that they’re working through this together, now that they have that chance.

He sleeps easier that night.

*

They throw a housewarming party at the beach house. It’s more an excuse to get drunk and loud masquerading as something that was supposed to be far more elegant, but it’s good – Bev and Ben have chosen this huge, open plan, light building that is more like a legitimate house than a simple holiday home (‘beach house’ is not a worthy name of the grandeur of this place). Ben rambles on about some part of the architecture for a while, until Beverly kisses him on the cheek and tells him nobody really understands, but yes, Ben, of course it’s beautiful.

It’s secluded enough that their noise won’t affect anyone else. Eddie thinks it’s kind of perfect, actually. When he closes his eyes, he can picture himself somewhere like this – a thousand miles away from the city, digging his feet into the sand and letting the sound of the waves crashing against the beach being the only thing he hears. In reality, he knows it wouldn’t be anything like that. It would be something more like: him, freaking out because the sand is _disgusting_ and it’s literally made of rock and dust and dirt; him, not wanting to swim too far from the shore because all he can think about is the risks – of drowning, of sharks, of getting lost at sea.

It’s nice to pretend, still.

“I’m thinking of coming out.” Richie announces at the dinner table on the first night.

They’re all there – Patty, too, now an honorary member of their admittedly messed up group – and there’s a full spread laid out before them. Ben and Mike have worked hard to cook something worthy of them all (‘there’ll be dairy in this,’ they’d said, ‘so we’ll make you a different version’ but Eddie had said no, that that would be fine, and he’d avoided the raised eyebrows but appreciated the lack of interrogation) and it’s _good_. Eddie’s a little ashamed to be just now discovering the wonders of shellfish linguine and pad thai, at forty years old for God’s sake, but it’s a testament to the things that have changed that he’s trying it all now.

“Uh. That’s nice?” Bill frowns at Richie.

He’s not the only one.

“Didn’t you already do that?” Eddie can’t help himself, confusion bleeding into the words.

Thankfully, Richie just snorts. “Uh, yes, I did, thank you for reminding me of that fairly traumatic moment, Eds –“

“It was hardly traumatic.” Bev rolls her eyes. She’s smiling, though, so it takes away from her words. “Stan already knew, and the rest of us were just very proud of you. _Are_ proud of you.”

“Stan – what?” Richie splutters, turning to face the man in question. Eddie does, too, frowning though he doesn’t know why.

“ _You_ knew?” It sounds accusatory even to his own ears.

Stan just shrugs. “I worked it out when we were – fourteen? Though I think I knew before then, really.”

“Clearly didn’t act as straight as I thought I did.” Richie mumbles, looking a little dumbfounded, even as the rest of them make sounds of amusement, in varying degrees.

“Definitely not.” Mike grins. He shakes his head as though it’s funny, and Bill is snorting into his glass, and Eddie –

Eddie is _still_ confused. He’d thought it back then, in Derry, when they’d first gotten together and Richie had told them that he was gay – he’d thought then that the rest of them didn’t seem surprised. But Eddie? Eddie had been stunned. Now, he wonders what it is he’s been missing. He knows, logically, that Stan was Richie’s best friend really, but he remembers so clearly how much he had wanted to be. It seems silly, that he wouldn’t have picked up on something that the rest of them so clearly did, even if they hadn’t fully connected the dots until Richie had told them.

“Anyway,” Richie’s drawing them back in, tapping his hand on the table. “Yes, thank you, Bill, that's enough laughter -- yes, I did already come out. To you guys.” Eddie watches him take a breath, sucking in the air so deeply that he feels a little concerned for him. “But I meant – publicly, this time.”

There’s quiet for a moment, before Ben is patting his shoulder amicably, and Bev is blinking down the table at Richie with a quiet softness to her gaze.

“Oh, Richie.” She says. “I think that would be really great.”

“Yeah, man,” Bill nods. “I’m happy for you.”

Richie’s smile is a little shaky, but he nods back, just the once. “I’ve spoken to my agent about it already, but –“ He waves around the table, gesturing to them all in one clumsy movement. “Wanted to tell you guys. So. Expect that sometime soon.”

Eddie heart feels like it’s falling into his stomach, but he can’t explain it. He’s filled with – fear, for his friend. Worry. But so much pride that it feels like a slap to the face. He can’t remember the last time he felt so powerfully towards someone else; save for seeing them all again in the Jade of the Orient. _That_ had definitely been powerful.

“We’re proud of you.” Stan is always so no nonsense about these things, and Eddie feels a rush of gratitude towards him.

“Yeah,” he hears himself saying, flushing a little as so many heads turn to him, as Richie’s eyes shoot to catch his own. “Proud. That’s – it’s brave of you. Really.” He’s not sure he’s ever been less succinct in his life, and it just makes his face flush even deeper; his hands sweaty where his fingers are squeezing so tightly around his cutlery.

“Thanks.” He knows when Richie is embarrassed, which he is now; but Richie’s smiling, too. It’s a small, tender thing like he’s not sure if it’s allowed, and Eddie’s heart tugs so abruptly it’s silly. “Just know that I’m going to moving into this place when my career bombs.” He laugh as he says it, pointing between Bev and Ben with his knife, and everyone is looking at him softly – too softly, Eddie knows, can see the moment that Richie moves like he wants to bolt.

“You call that a career?” He grins sharply at Richie.

It works well enough to break the moment in the way that he was intending; the table falling back into a disarray of conversations and laughter and shouting.

*

**@trashmouth** : hey everyone. i want to apologise for all the jokes i have made in the past about fucking women. they were in bad taste.

 **@trashmouth** : going forward i will no longer be making jokes about fucking women. i will instead be making jokes about fucking men. these will be based entirely on my own experiences. thank u for ur time

*

**Bevvie Ringwald:** @Big Dick Tozier, has your agent killed you yet?

 **Bevvie Ringwald** : I hate that I had to type that display name out, btw. You should know this.

 **Big Dick Tozier** : aww bevvie!! but it’s true

 **Stan the Man has left the chat**.

 **Big Dick Tozier has added ‘Stanley Uris’ to the chat**.

**Big Dick Tozier has updated ‘Stanley Uris’ name to ‘Stan the Man’.**

**Eddie Spaghetti:** why is Richie’s agent killing him?

 **Eddie Spaghetti** : except for the usual reasons e.g. he’s annoying

 **Big Dick Tozier:** *</3*

 **Micycle:** How did you do that???

 **Not so Haystack:** [screenshot of Richie’s twitter]

 **Eddie Spaghetti** : oh my god

 **Stan the Man:** This is why I don’t follow you on Twitter.

 **Big Dick Tozier:** *</3*

 **Big Bitch Bill:** Stan, you have twitter?? :(

 **Read by: Stan the Man, Eddie Spaghetti, Big Dick Tozier and two more**.

*

The therapist’s office is light and minimalist in the sense that it’s trying way too hard to be soothing. But then, Eddie’s always been uptight and prone to picking holes in the most pointless of things, so he figures that that might just be him.

He smooths his hands along the barely there creases of his pants, his back pressed so tight and so straight against the hard back of the chair that it’s starting to ache. There’s too much tension in his shoulders for him to release, though he tries to shake them out imperceptibly, with tiny movements that do absolutely nothing but at least do not draw the attention of the receptionist to him. It’s irrational, he knows, but he feels nervous, as though he’ll see someone here that he knows. Logically, he understand that that would be fine, if it were to happen. Besides, if someone else is here, then they were probably going to be here for the same reasons. Still, the very thought that he could spot a familiar face has his heart rate spiking, and he takes some breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

“Edward?”

His head whips up at the mention, mouth moving on automatic. “Eddie.”

“Sorry.” The therapist, he assumes, smiles. Her nails are well manicured and she looks – clean. It’s a strange thing to notice, but it does set him at ease. “Eddie. Would you like to come in?”

He thinks _yes_.

He thinks _no_.

He thinks _I have to_.

Nodding his head jerkily, Eddie moves with her towards the room she indicates, letting her close the door behind him and trying not to feel a little suffocated as she does. He manages, just about; perches on the edge of the chair in front of the desk and lets his eyes scan the various awards and certificates that are framed on the wall behind her, like little promises that she can and will be able to help him.

“Why have you come here today?”

“I don’t know.” He says, too quickly.

Her smile doesn’t falter, and she waits patiently as he considers her question a little more. Why is he here? Because he’s forty and he’s leaving his wife but he can’t seem to find it in him to serve the divorce papers. Because he’s forty and he’s only just remembered just how much his own mother fucked him up. Because he’s forty and he feels like a teenager with a crush when he talks to his best friend; his very _male_ best friend.

What comes out is none of that.

“I think I need to talk about my childhood.”

After that first session, it gets easier. He keeps up his weekly appointments, prepares himself for the anxiety he feels before each and every one, and accept that he will not always leave his therapist’s office feeling better or lighter, but also that that is not always the point.

It’s a step towards _health_ , he reminds himself. He’s not a sick, immunocompromised little boy, and he never actually was. It’s something he has to remember every day, because sometimes he still reaches for the inhaler that has never been anything more than a crutch; still questions whether he’s doing the right thing by leaving behind everything he’s ever built for himself.

(One night, Myra calls, telling him that’s it’s okay. It’s not too late. He can still come home. He hangs up the phone, calls his lawyer, and serves the damn divorce papers).

*

_Hey, this is Richie. Obviously. Fuck, hang on, I dropped my fucking – hello? Oh, wait, it’s voicemail_. Rustling sounds, followed by slow laughter. _Eds, Eddie, my love, just wanted to check in, how are you? Good, probably, I bet. Anyway, I was – I had a fucking brilliant idea, right? I thought maybe everyone could… I dunno… come here for thanksgiving, or something. Then I remembered you have, like, an entire fucking wife and shit, so. I guess you won’t be able to? I mean. Fucking obviously. I know you won’t be able to. Sucks. Anyway, call me back?_

*

Eddie listens to the voicemail five times in a row; rewinds. Pauses. Listens again.

He thinks back to when they were kids, when he didn’t let himself read into anything – how Richie saved the best jokes for him, even when he knew Eddie would shoot him down. How Richie lit up from the inside whenever Eddie did laugh, which was more often than he wanted to, more often than the rest of them. He thinks about the hammock, the way he wanted to be close to Richie without even realising it, the way he wanted all of Richie’s attention. He thinks about Richie distracting him during the scariest moment of his life; clicking his arm back into place like it was nothing.

He thinks, and he wants, and he doesn’t let himself read into anything again. Not now. He hears the slur of Richie’s words on the voicemail, the self-deprecating tone that he knows and hates so much, and he hovers his thumb over delete before pressing down.

*

**Big Bitch Bill:** [an image of his writing desk; a cat; a distinctive arm]

 **Big Bitch Bill:** wait. How do I delete

 **Big Dick Tozier:** OH MT GOD IS THAT MIKE HANLON’S ARM

 **Big Dick Tozier** : IS MIKE THERE WITH YOU

 **Bevvie Ringwald** : richie

 **Big Dick Tozier** : Beverly is that or is that not mike’s arm

 **Big Dick Tozier** : spoiler, it definitely fuckin is

**Big Bitch Bill has left the chat.**

**Stan the Man** : Richie, you dick.

*

**Big Dick Tozier** : okay, it’s been three days. I think everyone has calmed down enough

 **Bevvie Ringwald** : richie

**Big Dick Tozier added ‘Bill Denbrough’ to the chat.**

**Big Dick Tozier has updated ‘Bill Denbrough’s name to ‘Big Bitch Bill’.**

**Big Dick Tozier:** billiam don’t leave, I’m sorry.

 **Micycle:** He won’t leave but he is refusing to message the chat :(

 **Big Dick Tozier:** that’ll do

 **Bevvie Ringwald** : tell Bill I’ll hit Richie for him when I see him.

 **Micycle** : *<3*

 **Big Dick Tozier:** i would like to welcome u all to los angeles for thanksgiving next month. i know it’s a real honour but no need to thank me yet.

 **Not so Haystack** : That’s really nice, Rich! Bev and I will come, of course.

 **Micycle** : Sounds good :)

 **Micycle:** Bill will also come.

 **Big Dick Tozier** : i bet

**Big Bitch Bill has left the chat.**

**Stan the Man:** Can Patty come?

 **Big Dick Tozier** : obviously!!

 **Stan the Man** : We’ll be there.

 **Eddie Spaghetti** : Sure. I’ll come.

 **Big Dick Tozier** : wait, what???

 **Eddie Spaghetti** : I’ll be there.

 **Big Dick Tozier** : oookay

 **Big Dick Tozier** : with the, uhhhh, wife?

 **Eddie Spaghetti** : no.

 **Micycle** : [image of a sunset]

*

Los Angeles is _hot_ and _sticky_ and Eddie would hate it, if it wasn’t also where Richie is. And the rest of the losers. Thanksgiving has come around quicker than he expected – maybe quicker than he had hoped – and he’s… feeling sufficiently unprepared. Nobody has messaged him separately since he very adamantly announced that he would be joining them for thanksgiving suspiciously wifeless, and he’s both grateful and disappointed about the fact. Maybe it would’ve been easier if he’d just done a Bill and told them all about his divorce over text, where none of them could see him, but Eddie’s been avoiding confrontation like this all his life.

Sometimes it works.

Sometimes it just leads to further confrontation down the road.

(It’s not confrontation itself; everyone knows that he’ll snarl and scream and bite, have seen it often enough when it comes to Richie, but it’s this – which involves his mom or his wife or anything else too close for comfort).

Ex-wife. Since the divorce has been finalised and all that.

He’s nervous about seeing them all now – more specifically about seeing Richie. It’s like he knows that technically he has free reign to address the things he has Never Addressed between he and Richie, but also that thought terrifies the ever-loving fuck out of him, so.

It’s better when he gets to Richie’s and everyone is already there and they can all hug it out. Even when they’re done, he tracks the movement of the others, the way at least two of them are touching at any given time, like none of them can bare to be that far from one another, and he thinks he gets it. It’s like there’s an elastic band in his chest; it’s taut and uncomfortable when he hasn’t seen them for a while, relaxing into nothingness when he has the times like this. All of them together, basking in the fact that they can have this now, that nothing is going to stop them from having this now.

It has taking them a long time to really, genuinely believe that, he thinks.

“I can’t believe this is your house.” Mike shakes his head.

Eddie gets it. He’s shocked too – not about the décor or anything like that, but about the fact that this is Richie’s place. It has a lot of bedrooms and a swimming pool and looks so fucking _fancy_ , until they get inside and see the messiness, the haphazard style of cleaning that is so effortlessly Richie.

“They’re paying you too much.” He quips, because he can, and because he’s right. If this is what Richie has managed to get from a career of telling other people’s terrible jokes… well. Eddie knows Richie will deserve this, when he starts telling his own jokes and doing his own bits, funnier than anyone else could come up with.

“I’m actually severely underfunded. It’s terrible.” Richie says loftily, affecting an air which they all know is entirely false. “Never mind. One day everyone will see my worth and I’ll leave you all behind in the dust.”

“So he says. He’d be begging to get back in the group chat within a month.” Technically Bill and Richie have made up. Technically.

“I won’t forget my roots. Now, hurry up, get settled in, the food will be ready soon.”

“Please tell me you aren’t cooking.” Eddie entirely agrees with Beverly on this sentiment, feeling the horror in his own eyes as he looks at Richie.

Richie frowns. “Nice to see that you have faith in me, Bevvie, but no. I’ve ordered in.”

The sigh of relief from everyone in the vicinity is pretty much _felt_.

Thanksgiving in Los Angeles is not like thanksgiving anywhere else. It feels a world away from the chilly air and the festive atmosphere of New York, and Eddie misses that a little; but he’s glad to be here, with friends. He hadn’t thought about what he was going to do for thanksgiving before Richie had brought it up, and in the weeks after receiving the late night voicemail, he had blanched at the realisation that he was going to be alone for every holiday now. It’s not like he had ever really cared about the holidays before, usually working overtime around Christmas and thanksgiving, but – even for him, the thought of a lonely one was perhaps one of the saddest he had had in a long while.

There’s still Christmas to consider, but at least he has this for today.

It’s probably the best thanksgiving he’s ever had. It shouldn’t take forty years to have a holiday that’s enjoyable, but it does, and he thinks it’s reflected upon all of their faces. It’s weird. They have this shared bond between them – shared trauma, as Richie says – and even after all this time, it’s still each other that they maybe need to get through life with. Eddie thinks of cold thanksgivings eating plain turkey and vegetables at home with Myra; pressing kisses to cream heavy cheeks, the lips once or twice, and feeling nothing. Early nights with little merriment and nothing to celebrate.

This feels like the opposite of that in every way.

They eat, and they drink, and they play games, and for the first time in the longest while, he doesn’t feel like a middle-aged man and he’s _okay_ with it. It’s not one of those moments where he thinks he’s been – stunted, somehow, by the things his mother had pulled over the years. It’s a moment where he can feel like he’s young, with his whole life laid out before him, ready for the taking, and he remembers.

This is their second chance.

*

Later, when everything has died down and people are slipping away in their pairs, he finds Richie sat outside cradling a beer. The pool lights reflect his features in shades of blue, and for a moment, it takes Eddie’s breath away.

Then he blinks and it’s just he and Richie again.

“Hey.” He calls, feeling uncharacteristically shy around the only best friend he’s ever known. He settles himself on the lounger next to Richie’s. He nudges him, gesturing towards the beer. “Can I?”

“Get your own.” Richie says, even as he hands it over, eyes crinkling a little when Eddie takes a sip. “It’s – really fucking weird watching you drink and shit now. Even as teens, man… I remember you wouldn’t. Not one sip of beer, ‘cause you were worried…”

The _about your mom_ never comes, but Eddie knows it’s there. Any mention of her would’ve made him tense up before, but hell, he’s been going to therapy, and he’s doing really fucking well now, so. he shrugs.

“Well. We’re not teens anymore.”

Richie mutters on a breath. “Don’t I know it.”

There’s a story there, Eddie thinks. But he doesn’t push it, because nobody has pressed him about the _no wife_ thing. He’s seen the pointed glances and the curious expressions, but nobody has asked yet, and it’s a relief. Saying it makes it finals, and he _wants_ it to be final, but he’s also scared about what that means for him.

Even though he’s divorced now. Officially a free man, or whatever the fuck they say. He’s never understood the people who go out to celebrate their divorces, but now – well, he kind of gets it, even if he hasn’t done that, per se.

His eyes flicker down to the white band across his finger; the only evidence that a wedding ring once lay there. He can feel Richie tracking the movement with his own gaze; can hear the sharp intake of breath that tightens his jaw, like he’s gearing up for a fight even though he _knows_ that’s not what’s happening here.

Richie – fucking _Richie_ , who could not let it slide for one second that Bill Denbrough and Mike Hanlon were at Bill’s _together_ – says nothing.

Neither does Eddie, because he’s a fucking coward.

“I’m glad you came,” is what Richie says instead. He looks out at the pool, and Eddie looks at his side profile and tries not to let it burn him. “I’m glad all these losers came, but – I’m glad _you_ came.”

“Yeah.” Eddie breathes out finally. “Yeah, me too.”

And then he says, “Beats being alone on thanksgiving, huh?”

He feels as much as he sees Richie’s head shoot back towards him. Notices the eyes that move to his finger again, as though they can’t help themselves, and he feels the panic that builds in his own chest, and he says, “I mean. You would’ve been alone otherwise, right?”

It comes out meaner than he expects it to – though he’s definitely been meaner, god he’s been so _fucking_ mean before – and Richie deflates.

For a second, Eddie feels the tension rise and worries that Richie is going to – explode, or cry, or _something_ , but he just nods. Somehow, that’s worse.

“Yeah. Got it in one, Eds. Guess I’m the saddest clown in town after all.” He laughs, this brittle, hollow thing that shoots right through Eddie, before getting up.

Before he leaves, he leans forward – like he’s going to touch Eddie’s shoulder or his face or – or

Eddie looks out at the pool and lets Richie slink back into the house. When he’s sure he’s gone – that he’s alone – he lets himself sink forward, shoving his head into shaky hands with a breath that sounds more like a moan, and he wonders how many more chances he’ll get to fuck this up.

Tonight, he’s felt like forty; like fourteen; like nothing.

*

The rest of the weekend goes by in a blur, the shift between he and Richie noticeable enough that Bev tries to pull Eddie aside, at one point, as though she can somehow fix whatever the fuck that they (Eddie) did.

He tells her nothing, because he’s a coward. But also maybe because it’s not just his to tell, and nothing really happened anyway – except for him being a _coward_.

He leaves with a one-armed hug from Richie that is like none of the other they have shared before, and simply leaves him wanting more. He leaves too with the knowledge that he can’t have more; not if he’s not willing to give it in return.

Sharing a taxi to the airport with Bev and Ben is equal parts wonderful and awful, and he’s thankful when they finally get there, parting with promises to stay in touch. They do this every time, but at least now is not like the first time – he remembers watching them leave that day in the Derry Inn and not believing for one second that this would bring them all back together again in the way that he hoped for.

Sometimes, being proven wrong is a good thing (but he doesn’t want it to happen too often, thank you).

The airport is busy in a way that makes his skin itch, because its thanksgiving weekend, and everyone knows that this is one of the worst times to travel. There’s two hours to go until his flight, but he avoids the germ-ridden clunky plastic chairs like his life depends upon it – it could, if you think about it – and he stands upright, leaning into but not against the wall.

What he means to do, is take out his phone and check his messages and kill some time.

What he actually does, is take out his phone and scroll through the photos from the weekend.

There’s so many of them all together (after they’d managed to show Mike how to use the timer setting on his camera), most of them taken by others and sent through to him via the group chat. There’s one of Richie and Stan, Stan giving Richie one of his rare, softer smiles; some of Bill and Mike, Bill giving the bird to the camera over Mike’s shoulder. He pauses on one of himself and Bev, noting the squint in his eyes and the easy smile, the laughter lines that look so much better in the daylight when surrounded by friends like these.

He flicks through the many, many photos, because Ben had gotten increasingly more enthusiastic about taking them the more alcohol he had consumed, and he almost skims over the one of he and Richie.

There are plenty of he and Richie in a group setting. But this one is just the two of them.

He looks at himself, first. Experiences something akin to a hot flush when he sees the way he leans into the arm Richie’s shoved around his shoulders; flashing back to that moment two nights ago, as though he can feel the warmth exuding from Richie’s body even now. He’s laughing at something Richie’s said – a full bodied laugh, his arm wrapped around his middle to keep him from doubling over, his eyes barely open with the effort of the smile threatening to break open his entire face.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s embarrassing until he looks at Richie – in the picture. The height difference between them is even more noticeable in this one, because Eddie’s half curved at the waist, and that – well. He files that away for another time. Instead, he looks at Richie’s face, the strong edge of his jaw, the hair which he’d recently run his fingers through, and he stops on his eyes. His eyes – which are so bright and so delighted and so _pretty_ – are focused firmly on Eddie’s face. If Eddie didn’t know any better, he might think that he had been the only one in the room with him at the time.

It’s every bit the amount of attention he always craved so desperately from Richie as a kid, and it makes his tongue thick, makes his heart swell, makes his palms clammy around the edge of his phone.

*

When Richie opens the door, he makes a move as though he’s going to close it again; he pauses, pulling it open wider, and squints.

“Eddie..?”

“Yes.” Eddie agrees hurriedly, as though he has to confirm the point. He doesn’t waste any time, pushing past Richie and into the comfort of his house, leaving his suitcase outside on the porch (which he knows he’ll regret later, but right now it seems entirely reasonable).

“Uh.” Richie takes his time to turn away from the door and towards him, as though he hasn’t quite caught up with the fact that Eddie is back here, and has forced his way into his house. “Did you miss your flight or something --?”

Eddie shakes his head. “No.”

He should say more, he thinks. He should just – _tell him_ that he knows what he wants. Even with the evidence there before him – whether in memories or photos or just fucking Richie – he still doubts that this will be a happy ending for him, though, somehow. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if it isn’t, is the fucking thing.

He’ll definitely have to leave the group chat. That would suck.

“Okay.” Richie says.

He doesn’t say anything else for a moment, or even make a move. Eddie thinks blindly that he’s probably waiting for him to speak, but he doesn’t so.

“Okay.” Richie says again. He moves into the house, heads straight for the kitchen behind them, and takes out two cans of beer from the refrigerator, shoving one across the counter towards Eddie.

Eddie says, “Thanks.” and he realises how crazy this is, then.

He’d been so sure of himself on the ride over. He’d left the fucking _airport_ for a flight that is leaving in ten minutes, according to a quick glance down at his wristwatch, and now he doesn’t even know where to begin with this.

“I’m gay.”

Almost as soon as he says it he has to slam his hands down on the edge of the kitchen counter top to steady himself. He ducks his head, partly so that he can take in some much needed air, and partly so that he can not look at Richie’s face right now.

Richie makes a noise that sounds too close to strangulation to be comfortable. “Ah – I’m – you’re… what?”

“Gay, Richie. Keep up.” Eddie manages to snap.

It’s quite self-righteous for a man who can’t even look another man in the eyes right now, but so be it.

“Well.” Richie mutters. “That explains the wife… thing. Or the lack thereof.”

“Richie.”

“Right -- .”

“Shut up.”

“…Sorry.”

“Okay. So you need – what? Some moral support?”

Eddie raises his head to level him with a strong amount of incredulity, to which Richie puts his hands up; the universal sign of surrender.

“What!? I mean it makes sense – you’re gay, I’m gay, I guess you’re just… now getting your head around it, or something? It’s cool, man. It’s fine. You can stay here for however long as you need and –”

“No.” Eddie croaks. “I mean, yes. I want to stay here –” He blusters past Richie’s widening eyes and the opening of his mouth before he can say anything else. “But not – not because of that. Not like that.”

He tries to look at Richie meaningfully, but it was never going to be that easy. Richie still looks confused, a little bit lost, and as though he’s on the edge of collapsing against the fridge from the sheer effort of this entire conversation, and Eddie can hardly blame him for that.

“I left Myra – a while ago, now. I just. I needed some time. After Derry. I needed to process it all.” He starts pacing up and down the small area of tiles on his side of the counter. “I knew I had to go back to New York, but… I didn’t want to. Even back then.”

He knows this is it. It _has_ to be it. He stops.

“I remembered, you know? Like – everything.” He gestures between them.

Richie still looks fucking _confused_. “Yeah, Eds, we all remembered, it’s –”

“No.” He thinks he might be yelling a little, and he has to take the time to _not_ do that. “I mean I remembered us, as kids. The way we were back then. I didn’t know it – I mean, we were kids, I just…you know what my mom was like.”

He feels Richie’s worry the moment he steps forward to put a hand on Eddie’s arm, tentatively. It’s supposed to be reassuring, and it is. It is because it’s Richie, and no one has ever really understood Eddie the way Richie had – does.

“I know I loved you, when we were kids.” He has to keep his head down, not quite able to meet Richie’s gaze right now, even as he feels the hand on his arm tighten briefly before relaxing. “Not like… not like I loved the rest of them.”

“Eds.” Richie’s taking a step back, and it’s all _so_ wrong, but Eddie can’t seem to stop now.

“And then after – after the last time, when we killed It, I just knew that everything was wrong, okay? Like – I couldn’t just go back to my fucking life knowing what I know now... knowing that you were out there.”

It’s not much of a confession, but it’s his. Even if Richie doesn’t want it.

“Say something.” He says, finally looking up at Richie, noting the shell-shocked expression on his face. It makes him look – fucking dumb, honestly, but endearingly so, in a way that Eddie can feel right through to his fucking bones, and he can’t believe it’s taken him this long to _get it_.

“I – if you’re doing a bit right now, it’s not funny, Eds, I gotta tell you.” Richie’s voice is weak with it. He laughs on a shaky breath of a thing, and Eddie can’t help the resounding laugh that it pulls from his own chest.

“You’re the fucking comedian here, Rich, not me.”

“Yeah, well… apparently.”

There’s a shift as Richie moves closer. A huge hand cups Eddie’s face, tracing so softly along the graze on his cheek that he can barely feel it. It’s not enough; he pushes into it until the warmth of Richie’s hand is permeating his skin, hearing the catch in Richie’s throat, feeling something too hopeful and too scary lighting up his bloodstream.

“This is – I wanted you even when I couldn’t fucking remember you, Eds, god, so –” Richie’s face is open and vulnerable, his eyes scanning Eddie’s features as though needing to see something there. Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever seen Richie like this – so exposed. Not even all those times as kids. He thinks for a moment that if his heart could fly from his chest, it would. “This is serious, for me. You have to be in it.”

Eddie thinks about that, because he has to. Because he’s a risk analyst. Because it’s what he does.

“I am. I’m –” Scared, terrified, desperate, “I’m in this, Rich. I want this.”

  
It’s all Richie needs. Eddie has no time to think anymore, because Richie’s lips are against his, something so sweet and chaste until it isn’t. He wraps his arms around Richie’s shoulders, pulling him further against him so that he can give as much as he can take; the press of thick lips and the drag of stubble against his so unfamiliar but so intoxicating.

  
He wants and he wants and he wants, until he can have.

*

**Big Dick Tozier:** [an image of the Los Angeles sun outside his bedroom window]  
  
**Big Bitch Bill:** is that eddie’s suitcase lol

 **Big Bitch Bill** : why is eddie still there

 **Bevvie Ringwald** : ………

 **Big Bitch Bill** : [‘well, well, well, how the turntables’ meme]

 **Big Dick Tozier** : fuck

 **Big Dick Tozier** : eddie’s not here

 **Big Dick Tozier** : but for the record, if my body is found washed up on a beach, it was definitely him

**Stan the Man has left the chat.**

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on twitter over [@decdlights](https://twitter.com/decdlights), and also on tumblr [@lndntown](https://lndntown.tumblr.com/), if you fancy following me!! and being my friend maybe :) :)
> 
> oh! also!! title is from adele - water under the bridge, for reasons.


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